Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
RAFAEL SANTOS
Am I wrong?
Is everything I know a lie?
Is every horrible thing I’ve done been for no reason?
Am I wrong?
Starring at the ceiling, I watch the fan twirl, its paddles casting shadows over the ceiling.
I picture a world where the worst person I know is really just a sad, misunderstood girl not only coerced into an evil life but stripped of anything good.
A broken girl who was forced to become the villain in order protect her shattered soul.
In that world, she’s fiercely protective of the people she cares about—maybe not by telling them, but by showing up and being the bad guy for them, no matter the stakes.
In that world, she’s sharp tongued and venomous to the people who’ve wronged her because she doesn’t know how to be kind to herself, much less anyone else.
In that world, she cries at rejection and abandonment—not because she’s sad or even mad, but because she’s terrified of being alone with her demons.
In that world, she doesn’t know how to use a gun, doesn’t know or even try to protect herself, because she doesn’t see the point in living another day if it’s going to be as hard as it’s always been.
In that world, she doesn’t kill innocent boys.
I slam my eyes shut, pinching the bridge of my nose, and try to suck in calming breaths that just won’t come. I see the world I’ve come to know exploding before my very eyes.
Have I always been wrong about Valentina?
“What have I done?” I whisper to the ghosts of my family where they crowd in the darkest corners of my mind—where I’ve shoved them, afraid if I allow them out, I might actually decide to let them go.
If I don’t have my family, what do I have?
I pull the tattered photo out from beneath my pillow, the edges frayed and bleached. Four little boys, their cheeks rosy and eyes full of joy. We didn’t yet look at the world through the jaded glass of loss and vengeance.
Staring at the third boy to the left, always the skinniest, tallest, and shiest of the four, I think about what he would say about Valentina—what he would think of her now.
Is she really so evil, or is she just hurt—a caged cat fighting to stay alive?
I know the answer without saying it aloud.
I slam my eyes shut, tears pricking at the corners.
Taking a deep breath, I grab my phone, checking the time.
Two in the morning, and even though I’ve always loved my sleep, I know I won’t be getting a wink more tonight.
Every time I close my eyes, I picture a younger Valentina being traded by the man she worshiped to a group of men who destroyed her world in a matter of moments.
Moments I can’t even begin to fathom, and yet, holding her as she shook in my arms from a panic attack, I felt the weight of them settle on my bones. They’re dark and heavy, like sinking into a barrel of tar.
How has she survived as long as she has?
I don’t know if I’m that strong—I don’t know anyone who is.
I push out of bed, slipping into a pair of gym shorts and running shoes, foregoing the shirt. The thought of anyone going through the kind of torture she described brings my blood to a feverish boil.
I’ve got to get out of here—get away from the vile world I knew existed but never experienced.
As silent as possible, I slip out of my room and slink down the hall to the front door.
A light illuminates the kitchen, and for the briefest moment, I contemplate seeing who it is.
Instead, I head outside into the pitch dark of the clouded Texas night, the cricket’s humming offering a comforting vibration skittering over my skin.
Running has always been my escape, my way of sorting through the mess my head becomes when I’m warring between what I know and how I feel.
I jog down the stairs and head straight for the green gate connecting the driveway and one of the pastures. As I move farther into the night, following along the barbwire fence, my breathing becomes labored, my mind emptying of anything beside the sounds of my thundering heart.
Out here, I’m not Rafael Santos Marteniz, a poor kid from an immigrant family that no longer exists because their mother was sick and his brothers were misguided and twisted.
I’m not the man who hid in the dark and heard his brothers shot without intervening, or the one who sent their younger brother to fill his place in crime.
I’m not the man who’s a disgrace to my mother, a disappointment to my brothers.
I’m not the man who traded morals for secrets and depravity in the name of revenge.
I’m just a shadow, slicing through the night, running from the inevitable.
Sweat sluices down the crease of my crest, dripping from my temples and gathering around my waist. If I can run long enough, far enough, maybe I can sweat out every evil action, every misguided thought from my body and mind.
Maybe when I return to the house, stepping into the chilled air conditioned space with the smell of a warm, home cooked meal still clinging to the air, I can be a different man.
But what kind of man do I want to be?
Pulling out my phone, I dial the familiar number and wipe the sweat from my brow as I wait for the machine to pick up.
I close my eyes, breathing so heavily, I can barely form the words.
“Mama, it’s me again. I know it’s been a while since I called, but I need your help.
I’ve fallen off the tracks, just like I have so many times before, but this time is different.
This time, I’ve hurt everyone I love—I’ve hurt you.
And above all, I’ve hurt someone who’s the least deserving person I know. ”
I smile, staring at the shadow of the house, barely visible in the inky night.
“You’d like her, Mama. She’s got a venomous tongue and a mean streak—just like you said the right woman would.
I’m scared of her, but more than that, I’m scared I’ve hurt her too bad to go back.
I don’t know how to confess everything I’ve done.
I don’t know how to make it right.” My voice cracks, and I gulp in air, my lungs burning.
“I need your help, Mama. I miss you, and—”
Beeeeeppp.
My time ends, the machine cutting me off. A tear races from the corner of my eye, and I don’t wipe it away. I end the call and slide the phone back into my pocket.
A cool breeze picks up at my back, and I close my eyes, leaning into its caress. In some way, I know it’s my mother—her reassuring hand on my back just like she always did, pushing me toward where I need to go.
I have to make things right.
When I finally make it back to the house, I’m drenched from head to toe.
A cool shower, and a nap are a must before I tackle exactly how to tell Valentina the truth.
I round the corner of the barn, shutting the gate behind me, and notice the streaks of pale light tearing across the horizon.
It looks like fingers shredding the darkness, and I smile at the image of God pulling back the dark to reveal the light.
If he can transform true darkness into light, maybe there’s hope for me.
I’m lost in thought when I step around the barn and almost run into the car parked in front of the steps, its navy paint blending into the shadows. I freeze, listening for sounds of another person, but I come up with none.
Taking another hesitant step toward the vehicle, I strain my eyes to see through the glass. A figure sits in the driver seat, its head facing the house, clearly oblivious to my presence yet.
Could it be a late night booty call for Valentina? Someone McCrae knows?
Deciding it has to be someone my housemates know, I knock on the window.
The figure whips his head to look at me, his face contorting into pure rage, the whites of his eyes flashing.
Before I can make so much as another sound, the car revs to life, peeling out the driveway almost so quickly, I half question if it was real or a figment of my imagination.
I stare down the driveway, the dust nearly settled, my feet leaden. My heart pounds in my throat, dread settling over my bones.
“What the fuck are you doing?” The sound of a gun cocking behind me has me turning. I raise my hands in surrender—does he know?
“What do you mean?” I ask, playing dumb.
McCrae lowers the gun but doesn’t remove the bullet from the chamber, and I maintain my distance. “I mean, what the fuck are you doing? Why are you outside, making noise at this fucking hour? What are you up to?”
I stare down the driveway. “I went for a run.” I contemplate telling him about Valentina’s panic attack and decide against it.
Some twisted part of me wants to be the one who’s there for her—the one to keep her secrets and listen to her story.
“There was a man sitting in a car here when I got back. That’s the noise you heard. ”
He huffs a laugh, more a puff of annoyed air than anything. “A man sitting in a car. How fucking convenient. Where’d he go? Is he invisible, Santos?”
I bristle at the insinuation. “I’m not fucking crazy. He took off when he saw me.”
“You know what I think?” McCrae slowly slinks down the stairs, his tattooed chest on full display as he moves into the moon light.
There’s more there than I even thought possible—more of his skin black than it is white—and I can’t help but be curious about the purpose of each one.
As he moves closer, I remain perfectly frozen, still aware that his right hand wields a very real gun.
The moonlight catches on hundreds of small, raised silver marks dotting across his skin, and I stare in confusion.
“Santos,” he snaps.
My eyes meet his, nothing but pure disdain and distrust in his gaze. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re causing trouble for V. I think you cut the breaks on the truck—I think you wanted her to get injured far worse than she did.
I think you sabotaged the a/c in the bunk house so you could move into the house.
I think you planned to do something to my bike before you got caught.
And I think you’re trying to weasel your way into V’s life, only to hurt her. ”
I‘m careful to keep my face neutral, even as my blood runs cold.
He stands only inches away. “I can’t prove it yet, but I will.”
“How are you so sure?” I hiss.
He raises the barrel of the gun, pointing it at me for the briefest second before lowering it slightly and tapping it against the side of my neck. Right over my raging pulse.
McCrae doesn’t say another word as he backs up. He doesn’t have to.